Un Amico
by suspiriorum
Summary: It was almost more than either deserved, to die like this with one another. But it was what they wanted, and if there was anything more that they were willing to fight for, it would be this.


She was in a crumpled heap on the floor, giving a shattered cry from the bullets that ripped through her torso.

It shouldn't have been this way.

This was to be her vengeance – her _triumph_ – as years of torment would finally be brought to a fiery end in a single night. If she were to die, it would be of her own volition; _her sacrifice_.

_Not like this._

He lay where he had fallen, his own body rife with agony from the bullets she put in his back. As a soldier, he had been instilled with the drive to _think_, not to feel; to trust his _instinct_, not his heart. It was that instinct that powered him to take hold of that rifle in the bird's nest, and it was now that very same instinct which brought him to gun down the only woman he had ever loved in all his brief, nineteen years. His actions were purely mechanical, without forethought or malice. She had spilled his blood, and so he spilled hers – she had initiated, and he was merely responding in kind.

But years of militaristic training and indoctrination could only carry him so far. His Luger still fixed upon her, he could not find it within himself to pull that trigger one, final time. Hand trembling violently, he instead granted for the weapon to slip out of his grasp and hit the floor with a dull thud. He had rendered himself helpless to watch now, as she was dying before his eyes.

She could have sobbed, if she had the presence of mind to. It was almost unfair to her that he was willing to go this far, but not yet far enough. She raised her head to face him, and her breathing, as labored as it was, all but stopped at the sight of him.

There was a strain in his features as he looked to her with bleary eyes; his brow creased and his lips quivered, as if to speak, as if to sob. His face on the silver screen had broken her heart, and in turn, she had broken his.

Turnabout was fair play.

In his condition – broken and bloody – he appeared to her as he really was: a young boy who had been playing at being a man. He was, despite everything, an _innocent_. It was evident to her that his compatriots who filled the theater and found delight in his onscreen exploits did not deserve to claim his allegiance.

A desperate calm overtook her. Nothing seemed real for those who waited, and he had grown just as impatient as she had. In the face of everything the two had thus far survived, they both wanted peace; they craved it – the solidity, the security. Along the path of these longings, theirs had, because of something much greater than them both – be it fate or one another – intertwined. Neither would survive to know this peace, not as they had coveted it. Theirs was to be found elsewhere, far from where they lay, for the dead could not be resurrected.

There was still yet more she could see – much more. In him, she glimpsed at long last, a possible future taking shape; a future comprised of those parts of themselves that were inaccessible to all else except for one another. There was no place anywhere for either of them, nowhere else but here, with each other.

It was almost more than either deserved, to die like this with one another. But it was what they wanted, and if there was anything more that either was willing to fight for, it would be this.

Mustering the full force of her fading body, she lowered herself onto her abdomen with a resounding wet, hollow clap. Every cell screamed, every fiber protested, but she paid no heed. Rather, she cajoled every muscle and every tendon into cooperation as she clawed at the floor, willing herself towards him. She was undeterred; after coming this far, she could not afford to relent.

_Not now._

Her desire provided her momentum, even though she ached, and her heart, still pumping, continued to flow blood from her wounds like tiny rivulets, leaving a trail of red in her wake.

She pulled her body up alongside his, and bringing herself onto her side, she urged him to roll over and face her. Be it of his own free will or from his weakened state, he complied, relinquishing all control to her. She took hold of him, clutching and possessing.

Her touch was tender; achingly, exceedingly so.

He almost could have wept, for never before had he felt so much as he did within this moment: the heated presence of her body beside his, the gentle weight of her against him. His heart thundered and his body shivered, regardless of the hot, hard metal that seared through his flesh and the warm, sticky blood trickling down his back.

This was far more than a comforting gesture. She was fully offering herself to him and eagerly, he accepted.

As he slid his arm around her, clasping his hand to her lower back, she felt a sudden pang of self-pity. In all her time sequestered away in _Le Gamaar_with Marcel, she had, in essence, forgotten that she had a body. When the two needed each other, she would reach a hand between his legs and he would do the same; it always seemed to be just enough. But here, with the German War Hero, she felt sublimely physical. Even the pain that shot through her body made her somehow more human than she had been in far too long.

There was a pleasure in his touch, and in hers; there was a sensuality, a risk, and an utter realness. The pain that had first sent her crashing down to the floor had dissipated as soon as she laid her body down with his. Her life had been torn asunder from all of its familiar meanings, leading her here to bleed to death on the floor of the projection booth in the theater she had once claimed as her sanctuary.

But she wasn't going to die alone; she still had _him_.

Somehow, she always knew she would; she laid claim to him that June night he approached her from the shadows. He was her birthright, as she was his – never was that affirmed so fixedly as it was now, as she bound herself to him, bleeding and overcome. She had opened fire on him first, and in her mind, by reaching out to him, she was now making it all right.

It was then that his voice was heard, ringing throughout the auditorium in exultation,

_Who wants to send a message to Germany?_

Her own voice called back, challenging him,

_**I** have a message for Germany._

As if she had fallen through a trapdoor within her own soul, the calm was broken, slashed away and replaced by a gripping terror.

She feared that he would push her away, rejecting her when she needed him most. Whether or not he could understand was not as crucial to her as it was that he just be there for her. It would indeed be cruel and perverse, if, in all of his wanting of her, that he should refuse her now. She was cold with panic, her eyes were immense and seemingly devoid of all life. In all her dread, she was breathing so heavily that it was all she could sense; she couldn't move beyond the borders of her own body.

His hand on her lower back grew firmer; his touch now reviving her. His eyes were soft with warmth, and his voice, as hushed and weak as it was, came through to her.

"_Shosanna_."

Fragilely, she smiled. As faint a gesture as it was, it was all she could offer and it was more than enough. She then took a deep breath, the demands of their hearts having winded her.

Moving a hand from his chest, she pressed it to his lips – her _strong_hand; warm, beautiful, and red-tipped, it planted in him the flag of her own specific mortality. Feeling those fingers pressing into him, she made him look into her eyes, with a question held in his.

_Her eyes._

Wider and greener than he had realized, they did not search for anything specific in his face. Rather, they merely _were_; open and inviting him to know them, to know _her_. He allowed for it and for himself, thus seeing all that she silently implored him to: suffering and secrecy, broken sleep, a life of rations and little concern for her own well-being and comforts.

He felt unequal to the task of gazing so openly upon her, ashamed that she would even let him be so close. He almost felt himself slip away from her, if not for her hands upon him. Trailing her fingertips from his lips to his cheek, she cupped the side of his face. Her eyes remained locked on his own, and within them, he found an honesty; an earnest intensity that made his breath break in two. He could not turn from her. He could not deny her.

"_Shosanna_."

He was seeing someone now that no one else knew, not even herself, except through him. It was almost all too simple; it was the most real and unadorned thing he had ever known, and she knew it about him, too. Together, they were each others' pathways into themselves, and though both had lived lives that were far too much and far too old to fit them, they were still young enough for this elemental, spacious knowledge which bound them together.

The two found themselves enveloped in an overwhelming serenity.

She writhed against him, stretching her body further along his, opening herself up to him as much as she ably could. They could not have a consummation in the traditional sense – the kind shared between two lovers who did not have distance and war dividing them; the kind of lovers who held the beauty of youth and endless nights between them. He would never know the sloping curves of her breasts or the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs and the softness of the slick junction that lay between them; nor would she know the weight of his strong body anchoring hers and the hard length of him deep within her. Such a thing was not possible for either of them, but here and now, the two would finally have their solace, their comfort, and their love.

As she moved, he moved with her, taking her with both of his arms into a sheltering embrace. Her hand traveled from the side of his face to the nape of his neck, gently touching the warm, neglected skin. Looking into her eyes, he felt a solid, harmonious sensation; like an arrow hitting its mark. The dark pupils of her eyes expanded and contracted, as if keeping the pace with the beating of her dying heart. She took in another deep breath and attempted to smile.

Not a word passed between them.

Being this close, he could see small spatters of blood – _her blood_– stained her porcelain skin. But there was no time to dwell on what either had done to the other; it was of no matter and of no importance now. Taking his hand from where it rested on the small of her back, he brought it to rest on her cheek and kept it there. Slowly, he lowered his face to hers and carefully, he kissed her on the lips. She permitted for herself to be kissed, and he kissed her more; hard and bruising. Even in their few precious moments left together, he found the strength to love her fully and avidly.

He was immersed in his hunger for her, which he never before felt so sharply and explicitly as he did now. It was as if his heart grew large in his chest, as he felt the rush of blood spread to the back of his throat and down to his legs. Fervently, she reciprocated his affections; she held onto him with a terrible strength, her lips now crushed against his in a powerful, open kiss. He kissed her back with all of his fervor and love for her, though he suddenly felt fragile and out of his element as he never could have imagined having what he had now. This was theirs and theirs alone; what the two both shared, and that frightful curtain of grief that had once separated them was now torn down. Nothing, not even their own imminent deaths, could put it up again.

She pulled at him now, drawing herself into him. The front of her dress was soaked through with blood. Thick and wet, it stuck to him. Red on white. Even through the heavy wool of his uniform, he could feel it. She was flesh and he was flesh; they were blood and bone and together, they were something vital and whole.

Through the material of her dress, he felt her hip bone graze against his cock; under any other circumstance, he would've been hard and ready for her, and judging by the myriad ways she was touching him, she knew that, too. She was running her hands up and down his back, smearing blood along the way as she traced over his chest and his ribs, wanting to feel the whole of him. She was on his stomach now, and in her need to acquaint herself with her fleeting lover, she brought her hand between his legs, cupping him.

His passion was now livid and frantically, he began to kiss her on her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, down her throat, and over the exposed tops of her breasts. He was nearly insane in his need to taste her, to feel her: the overpowering integrity of her body, the truthfulness of her reality – it struck within him a chord of gratitude and yearning.

Destruction and devastation loomed about them, but their full attention remained on one another. In the darkness, he could make out her outlines and every curve. He could feel her and her ragged, quick breaths; could feel them on his face, taste them. She was silent, and he just held onto her, feeling her ribs expand and contract as she breathed. He listened to her breathing and felt her growing heavier as she relaxed.

He kissed the top of her head and stroked his fingertips down the side of her face. She stirred against him, and moving closer still, she draped her leg over his.

"_Fredrick_," her voice was a whisper against his throat.

"_Shosanna_," he replied, his own voice having grown hoarse.

A mantra. A prayer. It was lyrical; a song of absolution. It almost could have been enough to save them both, and he couldn't help but feel a twinge of remorse. But as she tipped her head up, her lips meeting his, he knew that this was meant to be. There was no other way.

The feeling of peace, endless and serious, came over them once again. Never before had their lives been so precise, so well delineated as it was now, entwined with each other. It was then that death became acceptable, as a reality as implacable as their own.

With a near savage voracity, she kissed him. Furiously, ardently, her kiss was consuming. Infinite and all-encompassing, it was the fulfillment of that long-awaited connection that was beyond their physical extremities and far vaster than their emotional limits. Wholly ineffable, it was an exquisite effort of merging the two: the Jewish Girl and the German War Hero.

His heart ached.

The two had felt so clearly those parts that no one else could lay claim to, those parts which they so readily gave up to each other. In her flesh, she cradled his, nascent, but distinct. All that he was – his youth, his love, his brilliance, his sorrow – was now hers, deep inside her; so naked, so striking, and so honest.

She was putting her breath into his lungs and he was putting his into hers; she knew his truth as he knew hers. It stripped them bare and split them apart, piecing them back together anew. It was a joining of their souls, a melding of their hearts, and a union of their bodies.

The feeling of death within them vanished. Amid the chaos that reigned all around them, they had remained untouched, even against the rising flames. Death itself had come undone.

They were lovers and they were one.


End file.
